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"There let him victor sway, "As battle hath adjudged, from this new world "Retiring, by his own doom alienated; "And henceforth monarchy with thee divide "Of all things parted by the empyreal bounds, "His quadrature, from thy orbicular world; "Or try thee, now more dangerous to his throne."

But of all our poets, Young is perhaps the most liberal in bestowing upon his readers examples of this kind. His ideas are absolutely ponderous. His associations crowd upon us in such stupendous masses, that we are often burdened and fatigued, instead of being refreshed and delighted with his otherwise sublime, and always imaginative style.

The poetry of language consists, therefore, not only of words which are musical, harmonious, and agreeable in themselves, but of appropriate words, so arranged as that their relative ideas shall flow into the mind, without more exertion of its own, than results from a gentle and natural stimulus. That quality in poetry which is most essentially conducive to this effect, is simplicity; and perhaps, from the humble ideas we attach to the word, simplicity is too much despised by those who are unacquainted with its real power and value. Yet is there nothing more obvious, upon reflection, than the simplicity of the language of some of our best poets. We feel that it is only from not having been the first to think

of it, that we have not used precisely the same language ourselves. It contains nothing apparently beyond our own reach and compass. The words which terminate the lines seem to have fallen naturally and without design into their proper places; and the metre flows in like the consequence of an impulse, rather than an effort. Simplicity in poetry, when the subject is well chosen and skilfully managed, like order in architecture, where the materials and workmanship are good, establishes a complete whole, which never fails to please, not only the scientific observer, but even those who are least acquainted with the principles from which their gratification arises.

Our business thus far has been to point out what is not poetical in language; and so far as it serves to establish the fact, that the poetry of language, as well as that of feeling, arises from association, the task can

scarcely be altogether uninteresting: but that which now lies before us is one of a much more grateful character.

We are told by Blair, that it is an essential part of the harmony (and consequently of the poetry) of language, that a particular resemblance should be maintained between the object described, and the sounds employed in describing it; and of this we give practical illustrations in our common conversation, when we speak of the whistling of winds, the buzz and hum of insects, the hiss of serpents, the crash of falling timber, and many other instances, where the word has been plainly framed upon the sound it represents.

Pope also tells us, in his Poetical Essay on Criticism,

""Tis not enough no harshness gives offence; "The sound must seem an echo to the sense. "Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, "And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; "But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, "The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar."

And faithful to his own maxims, he thus describes the felling of trees in a forest:

"Loud sounds the air, redoubling stroke on strokes, "On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks "Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown, "Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down."

The words alone, gone, no more, are pecu

liarly adapted by their sound to the lengthened and melancholy cadence with which they are generally uttered; and quick, lively, frolic, fun, are equally expressive of what they describe. Of the same character are the following examples:-whirring of the partridge-booming of the bittern, &c.

"Scarce "The bittern knows his time, with bill ingulft "To shake the sounding marsh."

THE HORSE DRINKING IN SUMMER. "He takes the river at redoubled draughts, "And with wide nostrils, snorting, skims the wave." STORM IN SUMMER.

"The tempest growls

"Rolls its awful burden on the wind.

"Follows the loosen'd aggravated roar, "Enlarging, deepening, mingling; peal on peal "Crush'd horrible. convulsing heaven and earth. "Down comes a deluge of sonorous hail, "Or prone descending rain."

ON WINTER.

"At last the rous'd-up river pours along,
"Resistless, roaring, dreadful, down it comes" &c.
"Tumbling thro' rocks abrupt," &c.

"I hear the far-off curfew sound
"Over some wide water'd shore,
"Swinging slow with sullen roar."
"The reeling clouds

"Stagger with dizzy poise."-THOMSON.
"Have you not made an universal shout,

That Tyber trembled underneath his banks, "To hear the replication of your sounds, "Made in his concave shores ?"-SHAKESPEARE.

"At last a soft and solemn breathing sound
"Rose like a steam of rich distilled perfumes,
"And stole upon the air, that even silence

"Was took ere she was ware, and wished she might
"Deny her nature, and be never more

"Still to be so displaced."

"How sweetly did they float upon the wings
"Of silence, through the empty vaulted night,
"At every fall smoothing the raven down
"Of darkness till it smiled."

"Midnight shout and revelry,
"Tipsy dance and jollity.”

"The sun to me is dark
"And silent as the moon,
"When she deserts the night,

"Hid in her vacant interlunar cave."-MILTON.

But above all our poets, he who sung in darkness most deeply felt and studied the harmony of his versification. Shut out from The measure of the following two lines is the visible world, his very soul seemed remarkably descriptive of the tardy leavewrapped in music, and confined to that one taking of our first parents, when they passmedium of intelligence, through it he received for the last time through the gates of ed as well as imparted, the most exquisite delight. Witness his own expression,—

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Paradise.

"They hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, "Through Eden took their solitary way."

How bright and crystalline is the following description:

"How from the sapphire fount, the crisped brook,
"Rolling on orient pearl, and sands of gold,
"With mazy error, under pendent shades."

The following specimens, from different authors, are all illustrative of the harmony of numbers.

"How beautiful is night!

"A dewy freshness fills the silent air;

"No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain
"Breaks the serene of heaven:

"In full orb'd glory yonder moon divine
"Rolls through the dark blue depths.
"Beneath her steady ray

"The desert circle spreads,

"Like a round ocean girded with the sky.

"How beautiful is night!"-SOUTHEY.

"From peak to peak the rattling crags among,
"Leaps the live thunder!"

"And first one universal shriek there rush'd,
"Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
"Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd,
"Save the wild wind, and the remorseless dash
"Of billows: but at intervals there gush'd,
"Accompanied with a convulsive splash,

"A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry

“Of some strong swimmer in his agony."-BYRON.
“And dashing soft from rocks around,
"Bubbling runnels join'd the sound."-COLLINS.

"That orbed maiden with white fire laden
"Whom mortals call the moon,
"Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor
"By the midnight breezes strewn."--SHELLEY.

"Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound,

"As in the stream he plung'd, was heard around:

"Then all was still,-the wave was rough no more, "The river swept as sweetly as before, "The willows wav'd, the moonbeams shone serene, "And peace returning brooded o'er the scene."

H. K. WHITE.

Gray is scarcely inferior to Milton in his musical versification; indeed so much less important are the subjects of his muse, and consequently so much more easily woven in with soft and musical words, that as regards mere versification he stands unrivalled in the literature of our country.

"Now the rich stream of music winds along, "Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong."

"Woods that wave o'er Delphi's steep,

"Isles, that crown th' Egean deep,

"Fields that cool Пlissus laves."

"Bright-eyed fancy, hov'ring o'er, "Scatters from her pictured urn

"Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.”

"Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
"While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
"In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;
"Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm;
"Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,
"That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey."
"Bright rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
"Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour'd wings."

"Now the storm begins to lour,
"(Haste, the loom of hell prepare,)
"Iron sleet of arrowry shower

"Hurtles in the darkened air.”

"Now my weary lips I close :

"Leave me, leave me to repose."

Nothing can be more expressive of weariness than the simple words which compose these two lines. We could scarcely find in our hearts to detain the enchantress who utters them more than once, even were she capable of realizing to our grasp the imaginary dominion of a world.

The elegy written in a country churchyard is altogether the most perfect specimen of poetical harmony which our language af fords; but like some other good things it has been profaned by vulgar abuse, and many who have been compelled to learn these verses for a task at school, retain in after life a clear recollection of their sound, without any idea of their sense, or any perception of their beauty. Still this elegy contains many stanzas, and one in particular, to which the ear must be insensible indeed if it can listen without delight.

"The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
"The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,

"The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, "No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed."

Amongst our modern poets, there is not one who possesses a more exquisite sense of than Moore. His charmed numbers flow the appropriateness of sou.id and imagery, on like the free current of a melodious beams and the shadows, the leafy boughs, stream, whose associations are with the sunthe song of the forest birds, the dew upon the flowery bank, and all things sweet, and genial, and delightful, whose influence is around us in our happie t moments, and whose essence is the wealth that lies hoarded in the treasury of nature. In reading the poetry of Moore, our attention is never arrested by one particular word. His syllables are like notes of music, each composing parts of an harmonious whole; and the interest they excite, divided between the ear and the mind, is a continued tide of gratification, gently but copiously poured in upon the soul. There is scarcely a line of his that would not gratify us by its sound, even were we ignorant of its sense; but the perfect correspondence between both is what constitutes the soul-felt music of his lyre.

It would be as useless to select passages from what is altogether harmonious as to point out particular parts in a chain of beauty, whose every link is perfect; but from an almost affectionate remembrance of the delight with which they first struck upon my youthful ear, I am tempted to quote a few examples powerfully illustrative of the poetry of language.

"Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own, "In a blue summer ocean far off and alone." "Not the silvery lapse of the summer eve dew.” "I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining, A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on; "I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining, "The bark was still there, but the waters were gone." "There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, "And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; "In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, "To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song."

What a picture of innocent enjoyment is here! A picture whose vividness and beauty are recalled in after life as light and colouring only-whose reality is gone with the innocence which gave it birth.

In the poet's farewell to his harp, the last temples, rising on the very spots where imagination hertwo lines are exquisitely poetical:

"If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, "Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; "I was but as the wind passing heedlessly over, "And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own!"

A few more passages, quoted at random and without comment, will sufficiently illustrate what is meant by embodying in appropriate words, ideas which are purely poetical.

"So fiercely beautiful, in form and eye,
"Like war's wild planet in a summer sky,"

"who with heart and eyes

"Could walk where liberty had been, nor see
"The shining foot-prints of her Deity."
"But ill-according with the pomp and grace,
"And silent lull of that voluptuous place!"

"and gave

"His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on wave "Succeeding in smooth seas, when storms are laid." "still nearer on the breeze, "Come those delicious dream-like harmonies.—” "Awhile they dance before him, then divide, "Breaking like rosy clonds at eventide "Around the rich pavilion of the sun-"

""Tis moonlight over Oman's sea;

"Her banks of pearl and palmy isles "Bask in the night-beam beauteously,

"And her blue waters sleep in smiles." "To watch the moonlight on the wings "Of the white pelicans, that break "The azure calm of Maris' lake."

"when the west

"Opens her golden bowers of rest.”

"Our rocks are rough, but smiling there,
"Th' acacia waves her yellow hair,
"Lonely and sweet, nor lov'd the less,
"For flowing in a wilderness.

"Our sands are rude, but down their slope,
"The silvery-footed antelope
"As gracefully and gaily springs,
"As o'er the marble courts of kings."

Nor is the prose of this delicious bard less musical than his verse. The very cadence of his sentences would charm us, independent of their meaning, were it possible to listen without understanding; but his choice of words is such, that their mere sound conveys no small portion of their sense.

"Seldom, indeed, had Athens witnessed such a scene. The ground that formed the original site of the garden had, from time to time, received continual additions;

and the whole extent was laid out with that perfect

taste, which knows how to wed Nature with Art, with

out sacrificing her simplicity to the alliance. Walks, lead

ing through wildernesses of shade and fragrance-glades opening, as if to afford a play-ground for the sunshine-

self would have called them up; and fountains and lakes, in alternate motion and repose, either wantonly courting the verdure, or calmly sleeping in its embrace -such was the variety of feature that diversified these fair gardens; and, animated as they were on this occasion, by the living wit and loveliness of Athens, it af forded a scene such as my own youthful fancy, rich as it was then in images of luxury and beauty, could hardly have anticipated.

"For, shut out, as I was by my creed, from a future life, and having no hope beyond the narrow horizon of

this, every minute of delight assumed a mournful preciousness in my eyes, and pleasure, like the flower of the

cemetery, grew but more luxuriant from the neighbourhood of death."

"Every where new pleasures, new interests awaited me; and though melancholy, as usual, stood always near, her shadow fell but half way over my vagrant path, and left the rest more welcomely brilliant from the contrast."

"Through a range of sepulchral grots underneath, the humbler denizens of the tomb are deposited,-looking out on each successive generation that visits them, with the same face and features they wore centuries ago. Every plant and tree that is consecrated to death, from the asphodel flower to the mystic plantain, lends its sweetness or shadow to this place of tombs; and the only noise that disturbs its eternal calm, is the low humming sound of the priests at prayer, when a new inhabitant is added to the silent city."

"The activity of the morning hour was visible every where. Flights of doves and lapwings were fluttering among the leaves, and the white heron, which had been roosting all night in some date tree, now stood sunning its wings on the green bank, or floated, like living silver, over the flood. The flowers, too, both of land and water, looked freshly awakened;-and, most of all, the superb lotus, which had risen with the sun from the wave, and was now holding up her chalice for a full draught of his light."

"To attempt to repeat, in her own touching words, the simple story which she now related to me, would be like endeavouring to note down some strain of unpremeditated music, with those fugitive graces, those felicities of the moment, which no art can restore, as they first met the ear."

"The only living thing I saw was a restless swallow, whose wings were of the hue of the grey sands over which he fluttered. "Why (thought I) may not the mind, like this bird, take the colour of the desert, and

sympathise in its austerity, its freedom, and its calm !"

It would scarcely be possible to exchange any one word in the writings of Moore for another more fitting or appropriate, nor can the young poet be too often reminded that it is appropriateness rather than uniform elevation of diction which he has to keep in view. There are certain kinds of metre to which peculiar expressions are adaptedexpressions which even if the subject were the same, would be extremely out of place elsewhere; and here again Moore is preeminent for the skill with which he maintains

(if we may so call it) the proportions of his verse, by keeping the familiar and playful language with which he sports like a child with his rainbow-tinted bubbles, always in their proper degree of subordination; so that they never break in upon the pathos of a sentiment, or check the flow of elevated thought.

Lines on the burial of Sir John Moore afford a beautiful instance of what may be called tact in the choice and application of words. It is not the splendour of an excited imagination flashing upon us as we read these lines, which constitutes their fascination; but the entire appropriateness of the words, and the metre, to the scene described. Simple as these verses are throughout simple almost as the language of a child, and therefore to be felt and understood by the meanest capacity, they yet convey ideas of silence, solemnity, and power, such as especially belong to the hour of night, the awful nature of death, and the indignant spirit of the unconquered warrior.

Beyond the mere appropriateness of words, poetical language affords a deeper interest, in those rapid combinations of thought and feeling which a few words may convey, by introducing in descriptions of present things allusions to those which are remote, and which from being easily and naturally presented to the mind of the reader, glide in like the shadow of a passing cloud upon the landscape, without obscuring our view, or interrupting our contemplation of the scene.

Crabbe, who is by no means remarkable for the harmony of his numbers, abounds in passages of this kind; and it is to them that we are mainly indebted for the interest, as well as the power of his poetry. The first instance which occurs to me, is in the introduction to the sad story of the smugglers, and poachers—a story almost unrivalled for the natural and touching pathos with which it is described.

"One day is like the past, the year's sweet prime "Like the sad fall,--for Rachel heeds not time; "Nothing remains to agitate her breast,

Spent is the tempest, and the sky at rest; "But while it raged her peace its ruin met, "And now the sun is on her prospects set; "Leave her, and let us her distress explore, "She heeds it not-she has been left before."

Here is the story of the sufferer, told at once by a sudden transition from the description of her settled grief, to that which had been the bane of her past life-its melancholy cause. Yet the chain of association so far from being broken acquires tenfold interest from the transition of thought, and we hasten on to learn the particular history of this lonely being, who has experienced the most melancholy fate of womanthat of being "left."

Again, towards the conclusion of the same story, when Rachel finds the dead body of her lover, and, as if incapable of comprehending any further grief, takes no note of the intelligence that her husband is dead also.

"But see, the woman creeps

"Like a lost thing, that wanders as she sleeps. "See here her husband's body--but she knows "That other dead! and that her action shews. "Rachel! why look you at your mortal foe? "She does not hear us—whither will she go?”

Here we have three distinct ideas, not necessarily connected with each other, presented to us in quick succession, without any interruption to the interest excited by each individually. First, we see the dead body of the husband, and then "that other dead,” with the total abstraction of the mourner, who in her silent grief sees only one, and this proves the strength of her affection, which life might have subdued, but which death reveals in all its overwhelming power; then follows the simple query, "whither will she go?" presenting us at once with a view of her future life, and its utter desolation. Moore has many passages of the same description:

"Here too he traces the kind visitings "Of woman's love, in those fair, living things "Of land and wave, whose fate,-in bondage thrown "For their weak loveliness-is like her own!"

The reader may, without any flaw in the chain of association, pause here to give one sigh to the fate of woman, and then go on with the poet while he proceeds to describe other fair things, amongst which the stranger was wandering.

There is somewhere in the writings of Wordsworth a highly poetical passage, equally illustrative of the subject in question.

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